It has come to this as I stop at nothing to dig up content for this column: Recently I had a colonoscopy, and I lived to tell the tale.
The good news is I don’t have colon cancer. The bad news is I’m not immortal.
I have henceforth aged out of this ultra personal and much-fretted-about procedure. The reason is bittersweet. At 72, even if I were to develop colon cancer, which allegedly is slow growing, something else would likely beat it to the finish line. My finish line, that is.
It could be a bus, rampaging wolves, a meteor — or some medical malady. With Robert F. Kennedy Jr. managing the nation’s health, I am not ruling out the Black Death, The Sequel, which we will battle with snake blood and potions made from the healing waters of Mar-a-Lago.
According to a 2023 blurb from the National Institutes of Health, which may be lagging after tremendous budget cuts, more than 15 million colonoscopies are done in the U.S. annually. It claimed they reduce the overall risk of colorectal cancer death by 60%. I tried to connect to the full report, but Google said the link isn’t working. Surprise!
My personal journey is one of procrastination, which usually gets you nowhere. Records show I had my first colonoscopy just about 20 years ago. Because they found and removed a couple of polyps, which I am told can develop into cancer, I was told to return for another in five years.
Readers, don’t do what I did. Five years became 10, then 15, then nearly 20. My primary care doctor, who impresses with her meticulous and caring approach, suggested I end my foot-dragging. If things went well it would likely be my grand finale, she said.
And the procedure is basically free under Medicare! How could I resist?
I didn’t recall my colonoscopy of two decades ago with fondness. At that time you cleansed your innards with a nasty drink consisting of what seemed like gallons of pond water, fermented prune juice and Fresca soda, which I never liked even in its natural state.
I am happy to report that the current prep routine is less horrid. It began with four days of a bland, low-fiber diet. On Colonoscopy Eve I took two rounds of mighty laxatives. I leave the results to your imagination. As NASA says, all systems were go.
You keep calm and keep the paper close and then it is your special day. I went to Alice Peck Day Memorial Hospital, which is low-key cozy compared with DHMC, the Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Colossus. Parking is handy, too. (At my age, a bonus.)
The staff greet you like you’re there for a day at the spa. The doctor was particularly chipper. Although it was my second colonoscopy, someone told me he’d been involved in hundreds or more. Lucky him.
Things moved right along until I was on a hospital gurney in the procedure room. They asked me to roll onto my side and the drugs kicked in. I was out in a flash.
I woke up feeling fine — like one of the best naps ever — and my presence was heralded by nurses who were cheerful as all get out. I felt like they might bring me a birthday cake and sing, but perhaps I was a little loopy. I did get a muffin stuffed with blueberries that was made on site. It was delicious, but then again I hadn’t had anything solid to eat in around 36 hours. Even with that, it was a damn fine muffin.
Before you know it, I was back home and looking forward to an afternoon nap, one of the joys of retirement. The scale said I had lost around 5 pounds, but I soon found them when I resumed actual eating.
Altogether, it wasn’t a bad experience; I was happy to put it behind me (so to speak).
If I was writing for the New Yorker or some other first-class publication, this is where I would quote Tolstoy or another brooding Russian. But I relate more to Yogi Berra, whose wife reportedly asked him where he wished to be buried, since he’d grown up in St. Louis, played ball in New York and lived in New Jersey.
Yogi pondered that and replied, “Surprise me!”
I have had decades of good, even exemplary health, with little poking or prodding by medical professionals of any kind, but after 70 things change. I’ve since had a triple heart bypass, which has left me in fine fettle, according to historic fettle standards.
And now — as we proceed from medical appointment to medical appointment — it could be one surprise after another.